Chapter 5 - The Glass Tower on Wall Street
Seventy-two floors above the concrete, inside the penthouse office of Sterling Global Logistics, Richard Sterling stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the rainy grid of Manhattan.
He was fifty-five years old, impeccably tailored in a six-thousand-dollar Savile Row suit, with silver hair brushed back neatly from a cold, aristocratic face. In his right hand, he swirled a glass of forty-year-old Macallan single malt.
Behind him, sitting at a glass conference table, was his head of security, a man named Marcus Vance—a former elite special forces officer whose face was a patchwork of surgical scars.
“Explain to me,” Richard said softly, his voice polite, cultured, and devoid of any human warmth, “how six fully equipped operatives failed to eliminate an eighty-pound homeless woman inside a hair salon.”
Marcus Vance swallowed hard, adjusting his tie. “Sir... we didn't account for Dante Serrano.”
Richard turned slowly, his eyes narrowing into two thin slits of ice. “The Serrano boy? The head of the Manhattan Syndicate?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus reported, laying a tablet on the table. “Serrano was wounded earlier today in a turf dispute with the Moretti family. Apparently, he collapsed in an alley off 42nd Street. The girl... Julianna... was hiding in the same alley. She interfered when Moretti’s hitters moved in to finish him. Serrano brought her to L’Étoile as a reward.”
Richard took a slow sip of his whiskey, his fingers tightening around the crystal glass until his knuckles turned white.
“Seven years,” Richard murmured. “Seven years I have built this firm into a multi-billion-dollar government defense contractor. My father is eighty-eight years old, hooked to a ventilator in his estate in Greenwich, dying by inches. The board is preparing to sign the full transfer of voting stock to me on Friday.”
He turned back to the window, watching the rain hit the glass.
“If the board discovers that Julianna is alive,” Richard whispered, “the trust agreement automatically freezes all voting shares. My father’s original will leaves sixty percent of Sterling Global directly to her upon his death.”
“What are your orders, Mr. Sterling?” Marcus asked, standing up.
Richard turned, setting his glass on the table with a soft clack.
“Dante Serrano thinks he’s a king because he controls three docks and a hundred soldiers in Little Italy,” Richard said coldly. “He doesn't realize that I control the federal warrants. Call the Special Response Team. Tell the chief of police that we have a hostage situation involving an illegal mob stronghold on Mulberry Street.”
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He walked over to his desk, picked up a gold fountain pen, and signed a document lying on his leather blotter.
“Burn the bunker,” Richard ordered. “Leave no bodies to be identified.”
